Destiny's Forge

by Larry Niven

  For a moment Far Hunter hesitated, still unused to his new title, and then he walked down the long hall to Zraa-Churrt’s dais. Night Pilot should be doing this. The freerunner was older and more experienced and would doubtless present himself better than Far-Hunter-Rrit-Emissary could. But Night Pilot was a freerunner, and an Emissary had to be fealty-bound to the lord for whom he spoke. Night Pilot had refused to even enter Zraa-Churrt’s hall, because of the requirement that he prostrate himself at the door.

  He claw-raked when he reached the dais. Zraa-Churrt unfurled his ears. “So you are Speaker for First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit?”

  “I am, sire. Thank you for your time in this audience.” He spoke carefully, watching his tenses. Pouncer had carefully schooled him on the proper forms of address and respect. They were complex, as one might expect. He was a low-ranked emissary speaking to a high-ranked noble, but representing a higher-ranked noble. As if that were not complex enough, Pouncer’s status as the deposed-rightful-Patriarch-unrecognized-in-favor-of-his-younger-brother added another layer of formalism that had to be understood and adhered to.

  “Sit.” Zraa-Churrt gestured to a prrstet. “What may this humble pride do for you?”

  “Zree-Rrit seeks to regain the Patriarchy, rightfully his by birth. He asks you to honor your fealty pledge to his father.”

  “We honor the pledge without hesitation.” Zraa-Churrt leaned forward. “How we honor the pledge is the question. What does Zree-Rrit want?”

  “Ships in orbit at Kzinhome, to see that the traditions are followed in the skalazaal.”

  Zraa-Churrt’s ears went up. “Is that all?”

  “That is all, sire.”

  “Hrrr.” The Patriarch turned a paw over. “Are you aware of the progress of the kz’zeerkti war?”

  “My pilot was nearly caught in one of their attacks before he came to Kzinhome.”

  “They are overwhelming. All the ships I command would not stop them if they chose to destroy my world.” He looked away for long moments, then looked back to his guest. “How many ships would Zree-Rrit require?”

  “As many as you can send. More is better. The Tzaatz must understand there will be consequences if they violate the traditions.”

  “You are bold in your questioning of Tzaatz honor.”

  Far Hunter spat, suddenly angry. “I have seen Tzaatz honor. I watched them beat my father to death while he was trapped in a net. I have seen them throw the First-Sons of the Lesser Prides of Kzinhome into the arena on manufactured pretexts. I have seen them strip smallholders of all they own for less insult than I just offered.” His lips came away from his fangs and he felt his claws extend, even as a part of his brain fought for self-control. This is not the way of the diplomat. “The truth is never insult.”

  “Truth.” Zraa-Churrt turned a paw over and contemplated it. “Have you the proof-before-the-pride-circle?”

  “Proof?” Can he not see? Far Hunter touched his nose and the four white scar streaks he’d gouged with his own claws. “These scars are my blood oath, sworn when I saw my father die. I will not rest while Kchula-Tzaatz lives.”

  “The blood oath. I have heard of this rite.”

  And all at once Far Hunter understood. They do not have the same blood oath ritual, because they cannot see white scar-fur on their pelts.

  “I can prove nothing standing before you, Pride-Patriarch. Come to Kzinhome yourself. Have Churrt-Conserver ask Kzin-Conserver, or simply watch. The evidence is everywhere.”

  “I cannot come myself and abandon my holdings here. The kz’zeerkti are coming. Meerz-Rrit was right about that, at least. We have convinced them of the need to destroy us, and they are doing it.”

  “Send ships then, sire!”

  “And I would not be surprised to see ships of another Great Pride at my singularity either.” Zraa-Churrt went on as if he hadn’t heard. “Skalazaal is becoming more frequent even as we should be uniting before our common enemy.”

  “Sire, lend your support to Zree-Rrit! He can unite the Patriarchy as his brother cannot, as Kchula-Tzaatz has not. We need you.”

  Zraa-Churrt returned his attention to Far Hunter. “It is distasteful, what Kchula-Tzaatz has done with the Patriarchy, Rrit-Emissary.” Zraa-Churrt wrinkled his nose. “I stayed past the end of the Great Pride Circle to see what would happen. I was not encouraged when I left.” He paused, thinking, while Far Hunter dared not breathe. “Yes. I will send ships to Kzinhome. Not many…” He raised a warning paw. “…but perhaps enough.”

  The young Lady K’ab’al Xoc endures the bloodletting ritual, her flesh pierced with stingray spines to summon the Vision Serpent and sanctify the throne ascension of Itmanaaj B’alam, Shield Jaguar II.

  —Mayan glyph inscription, lintels 24, 25, and 26, structure 23 at the ruins of Yaxchilan

  Ayla Cherenkova woke, bleary eyed, to the thin, gray light of dawn filtering down from the tiny window far above in the tower over her cell. She stretched and looked to the scores she’d scratched on the stone wall, groped around for the pebble she used to make them, and added another. There were forty now, forty days since she was captured, more or less. She hadn’t thought to make them at first, before she’d realized that she might be there for a very long time indeed. She was naked and it was cold outside of the pile of straw they gave her to sleep in, but she made herself get up and do her daily exercise routine: pushups, wide, narrow, and hands together; situps and side crunches; isometrics for the major muscle groups; chinups using the door frame; jogging in place for four thousand paces. At least she had enough room to exercise. The cell was built to kzinti scale, and with kzinti regard for claustrophobia, which made it generous by human standards. She’d lived in tighter quarters on ship. She was sweating by the end of her routine and dried herself down with the hay and went through her morning ablutions. It was a ritual designed to save her sanity through discipline. It would buy her some time at least, before her mind snapped from confinement.

  The sanitary facilities were primitive: a bucket of water for drinking and washing, an empty bucket for body wastes. She’d read nightmares about prisoners forced to live for months in their own filth in dungeons like this, but her captors were meticulous about keeping her clean. Her straw bedding was changed daily, and both buckets with every meal, by the same two Kdatlyno slaves who brought her food. She couldn’t imagine it was through any concern for her well-being. The kzinti probably couldn’t stand the smell of less hygienic conditions. She had, in the short time before they put her in her cell, begun to discern a hierarchy of sorts among the slave species. Any slave could hold any role, but the Kdatlyno seemed to draw the bulk of the menial tasks. The insectoid Whrloo seemed to have more supervisory roles, while the Pierin worked as personal servants and the Jotok took care of more technical jobs. Twice she had seen slaves of other species in the distance, one a looming shadow, the other small and quick, but had no idea what they did or where they came from, or even what they were called.

  It was funny the things your mind considered when it had unlimited time to itself. For a while she had obsessed about what might happen next, and scenario after scenario involving the hunt park ran through her head. Now she was simply resigned to indefinite waiting in her cell until something happened. Resigned to wait, yes, but not resigned to my fate. When an opportunity to escape comes up I have to take it, and if they put me in a hunt park, I’m going to take a few of the bastards with me. There was a degree of desperate optimism in her thoughts that wouldn’t allow her to contemplate the odds against her survival in any of those situations. As bad as it was, she was probably far safer as a prisoner of the Tzaatz than she was trying to survive on Kzinhome alone, and while she’d fight her hardest in the hunt park, she would be a cornered rabbit biting at the fox.

  Pouncer was out there, and Pouncer wouldn’t abandon her, but neither did he have the strength to storm the Citadel, and there was no guarantee he’d win when he tried. And Quacy! Was she only imagining what Mind-Seer had said, that he h
ad come to Kzinhome for her? She hadn’t touched him, seen him, heard him; it seemed much more likely to be a fiction invented by her subconscious to encourage her to hold on to her sanity until she could get out.

  The keys jangled and the ancient lock snapped open, though it was early for the morning meal. She looked up as the heavy door swung in and one of the Kdatlyno looked in, gesturing for her to come out with long spindly arms, its silver knee and elbow horns glinting in the dim light against its tough, leathery skin. It seemed cramped in the kzin-sized doorway. A Kdatlyno would probably win a duel with a kzin, and she had to wonder how they’d been conquered, and how they stayed conquered.

  The Kdatlyno ushered her down a stone flagged hallway to another room. She didn’t like the looks of it: iron chains hung from the walls, and a large table of dark wood was in the center. A large, black-furred kzin was working with something on a long bench against the wall. He turned around as she came in and the slave closed the door behind her.

  “I am Ftzaal-Tzaatz.” The kzin held up what looked to be a long, silver skewer.

  “Good for you.” There was a reflex to cringe, to cover her nakedness, but she resisted it and stood straight. He isn’t human anyway. Make him respect you for courage and you’ll do better.

  “My new Telepath tells me your mind is closed to him.” For the first time Ayla noticed another kzin, this one lying on a mat on the floor in what seemed to be a drug-induced stupor. “Why is this?”

  “I don’t know, why don’t you tell me.” Defiance wouldn’t help, but it would keep her morale up. She noticed two more black-furred kzin, standing impassively in the shadows. Will they eat me? The thought was somehow more terrifying than the simple fact that she might die.

  “Then I will enlighten you.” Ftzaal was watching her intently. “There are three possibilities. One is simply that what Telepath says is true. Another is that someone is shielding your mind for you. The third is that Telepath can in fact read your mind and refuses to tell me what is in it.”

  “I can’t help you with that.”

  “That is too bad. At first I believed that Telepath might be deceiving me.” He looked at the prostrate figure. “I have worked diligently with him the last Hunter’s Moon, and I no longer think this is possible. Telepath has become increasingly eager to know your mind, as I have encouraged him.”

  Cherenkova looked from the black kzin to the slumped figure, uncomfortable with the stress he’d put on the word encouraged.

  “That leaves the other two options.” Ftzaal-Tzaatz continued. “I suspect the second is most likely true; your species is not noted for its telepathic prowess. Someone is protecting your mind. The question is, why?”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you find whoever that is and ask them.”

  The kzin ignored her barb. “I am going to ask you. You are about to face the Hot Needle of Inquiry. Be proud, this is a privilege rarely accorded to slaves.”

  “I’m not a slave, and neither is my species.”

  Ftzaal-Tzaatz flipped his ears, mildly amused. “I can tell you’ll provide good sport in the hunt park.”

  “I’ll have your pelt if you try it.”

  Ftzaal held up the skewer. “The Hot Needle is a technique perfected by the Hunt Priests, who are justifiably feared by the kzintzag for their skill in applying it. Unfortunately, it would be beneath the honor of a Hunt Priest to squander his talents on a lower animal, and so you will have to be content with my own inexpert attempt.” The bench behind him held an array of similar skewers, some delicately small, some as large as climbing pitons.

  “I don’t have any information for you.”

  “That is unfortunate, because information is the goal of the Hot Needle. The beauty of the technique is that, while the pain is excruciating, there is no chance that the subject will die prematurely.”

  “Perish the thought.” Ayla put all the spirit she had into it, but couldn’t keep a quaver out of her voice.

  “Kz’zeerkti anatomy is different, of course, but similar enough to ours that I think there will be only a few modifications necessary. I have read the references gained during the monkey wars. Your pain threshold is lower than ours, so care must be taken to prevent you from losing consciousness.” Ftzaal swished his tail. “Acolytes!”

  The two waiting black kzinti moved. She shrank back despite her decision not to flinch. They grabbed her impersonally, with enough strength that even attempting to struggle was impossible. A second later she was face down on the table, and the kzinti were strapping her ankles to the lower corners. Her arms were splayed wide and secured as well, as though she was about to be crucified, which might yet turn out to be true. The straps were designed for kzinti, and they had trouble cinching them tight enough to hold her securely, but when they were done she wasn’t going anywhere.

  “The needle cauterizes the flesh it penetrates.” Ftzaal was still talking. “There is no chance of infection.”

  Infection? That was worrying, not because Kzinhome’s microbes had shown any interest in her but because it implied she’d be there long enough that they had to take special precautions. Reflexively she struggled against her bonds, but she couldn’t move. Ftzaal went to the bench and flipped switches. Intense blue flames leapt up, and in their light she could see that the array of skewers was arranged so their points and shafts would be heated red hot while their wooden handles stayed cool. Fear shot through her system. I could give it up now, tell him I’ll tell him everything and spin him plausible lies. It would buy her time while he verified the truth, and perhaps he would never find out. She found she couldn’t take her eyes off the skewers, their shafts already beginning to glow. For the first time she began to understand that he intended to break her. At the same time her fear fueled her defiance. Ftzaal had been serious when he said the Hot Needle was an honor. He was treating her as he would a warrior, a testimony to the damage she had inflicted on the Tzaatz. If she surrendered she would lose that hard won respect, she would become a slave in his eyes. As a warrior she could deal with him as an equal, as a slave she would probably wind up in a hunt park. Her survival depended on her resistance.

  She could smell the hot metal now, and Ftzaal took a long, hot needle by its wooden handle and brought it to her. He brought his paw down on her right hip, and she could feel the radiated heat against her skin. She struggled and managed to generate enough movement that he couldn’t slide the needle in with the precision he wanted.

  “First Acolyte, take her leg. Second Acolyte, hold her waist.” Ftzaal’s commands were calm. Her small and temporary victory hadn’t ruffled him at all. She felt their paws seizing her like velvet vises, with the faintest pressure of their needlelike claws on her skin to warn her of the consequences of further struggle. She felt Ftzaal’s grip again, pulling the flesh out below her hip to make a target for the needle. First and Second Acolytes tightened their grip until she couldn’t move at all, and Ftzaal put the needle through, slowly and deliberately. The pain, when it came, was excruciating and she screamed despite her resolve not to, muscles convulsing against the restraints. The point bit into the wooden surface and she was pinned there like a butterfly on a card. Slowly, too slowly, the pain faded to a pulsing throb.

  “Now her lower limb.” Again the acolytes immobilized her more completely than the straps could, exposing her right calf. Ftzaal selected another needle. Again she felt the heat as he brought it close, and then pain, sudden and burning, lanced through her as he slid it remorselessly into the muscle. She was ready for it this time, and screamed through gritted teeth as her muscles convulsed hard, but the black acolytes held her motionless.

  She had expected the pain to come with questions, to be applied to punish resistance and withdrawn as a reward for cooperation. Ftzaal simply picked up another needle. She noticed his ears were folded tight against the volume of her cries. At least he’s suffering too. Cherenkova took dark satisfaction in that thought, and resolved to scream as loud as she could. To her surprise Ftzaal ord
ered the straps removed from her ankles; they were no longer necessary. The strap was taken off her right wrist as well, and they positioned her right hand in front of her face. Ftzaal chose a shorter, more slender skewer to violate her here. Why aren’t they asking questions? Again she screamed, her throat growing hoarse. She felt herself trembling, her body reacting with adrenaline and the need to fight or flee, but she could do neither.

  More needles, smaller ones this time, staking her hand down through the web of her thumb and between her knuckle joints. Her hand became a single hot spot of pain and she could not help looking at it, bright dots of blood around the dimpled flesh where the needles stabbed in, and the disturbingly appetizing smell of her own flesh fried by the heat. She tugged frantically against the restraints still on her other arm, desperately motivated to pull out the impaling metal, to nurse her injuries, but the strap was unyielding, nor would the acolytes have allowed her an instant’s respite had she somehow managed to pull it free. Ftzaal switched to the other side, and that hand was also released, positioned, and run through with the cruel steel needles, this time by her side, forcing her elbow awkwardly up into the air. The horrifying process continued, slowly and inexorably. Her left leg was drawn up until it was underneath her, skewers pinned through the sole of her foot between her metatarsals.

  And still no questions. She was eager for them now, eager to be cooperative, if only they would remove the searing needles from her flesh. There was a roaring in her ears as waves of pain coursed through her body. Tiny needles slid under her fingernails, under her toenails; a larger one through the cartilage of her upper ear nailed her head to the wooden tabletop, leaving her staring permanently at her right hand. Her breath came in gasps and she felt dizzy. She let her eyes flutter closed to let the relentless pain carry her into unconsciousness and peace, but if she relaxed her body the needles in her hip and calf would tear out. She would have thought herself beyond caring about that, but her body’s self-defensive reflex wouldn’t allow it.